


Immiscible

by kagome_angel



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: (they switch though), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Please be gentle with me, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Quick and Dirty, Rough Sex, bottom!Reisi, but who needs an excuse to write porn, i am weak (y'all should know this by now), i haven't written anything in two months, i haven't written mikorei in much longer than that, i still love mikoto so incredibly much, i watched the seven stories movies and this is what happened, i will take inspiration wherever i can get it thank you, is this a dead fandom, mikorei at its finest (not really), munakata just wants to save him, oops i did it again, sex in a bathroom, there is also angst, there may be some feels that sneaked in, they're both a couple of smartasses, this was just an excuse to write some porn to be honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagome_angel/pseuds/kagome_angel
Summary: im·mis·ci·ble/i(m)ˈmisəbəl/adjective(of liquids) not forming a homogeneous mixture when added together.They’re oil and water and they don’t mix.  They don’t.





	Immiscible

**Author's Note:**

> I was randomly struck by the inspiration hammer after I watched the first of the Seven Stories movies. 
> 
> I still can't quite believe I wrote this. I didn't think I would be writing for K again, but here I am!

They’re oil and water and they don’t mix. They don’t.

They antagonize one another. They argue. They fight. They fuck.

(They fuck just like they fight, mostly. Tenderness isn’t something that suits animals like the two of them. They scratch and they bite and they draw blood and they dig in and they bruise—they walk away from one another looking like they’ve fought a war.

In a way, they have.)

This, all of this, every bit of it, is filthy and _wrong_ , doubly-so because of how achingly _right_ it’s always felt when it fucking _shouldn’t_. Mikoto makes him shake inside of his skin, makes his bones feel like they’re going to rattle out of alignment, makes everything off-kilter and dizzying and _real_. It isn’t fair. It never has been. Munakata doesn’t voice this; he has a feeling that Mikoto would only say _life isn’t fair_ and it sure as fuck isn’t and Munakata doesn’t need to be given any reason to agree with this unreasonable hollowed-out man that makes him want to scream (for multiple reasons) and makes him want to kill and _protect_ in the same instance.

“Wonder what your underlings would think about seeing me having their king half bent over his office’s bathroom sink,” Suoh drawls conversationally. His hand works in quick, rough jerks over Munakata’s cock. His teeth sinking into the skin at the nape of Munakata’s neck are a different sort of discomfort, but no less welcome.

Munakata wants to hate that Mikoto can make him _want_ like this. 

“That we’ve strengthened relations between the clans?” Reisi tries, and almost ruins the joke by scowling when he realizes how absolutely breathless he sounds.

Mikoto’s answering laugh is a low rumble against his ear and it makes Munakata feel weak in ways that it has absolutely _no_ right to. “Fucking might fix a good many things, Reisi, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, here.”

“Then get _on_ with what you’re doing, already.” There’s a demand for obedience there, in Munakata’s tone. He’s more impatient tonight than he cares to admit, even though the transition from heated discussion to _this_ had taken place within a handful of moments, Munakata feels like it’s been _too long_ and like these finite moments are the only ones in which he can, in some sense, hold the Red King down.

“We may be on your turf, Blue King,” Mikoto murmurs, “but I did not agree to take your orders, tonight.” Defiant and unyielding and utterly infuriating—these things are what Mikoto does best.

Munakata can distinctly remember instances in which Mikoto _has_ taken orders—there have been nights when the scales have been tipped and Munakata has whispered commands that have been obeyed; it’s kind of funny how an attitude can change when you’re being held down and fingers are fucking you open.

(Munakata would know, wouldn’t he?)

“Then how about you order _yourself_ to get on with it?” is what Reisi manages to fire back with, and it’s a breathless snarl. He grinds his hips backwards in a retaliation of sorts, and feels no small amount of satisfaction when Mikoto groans in answer and cants his own hips forward. The friction is nice, but it isn’t remotely enough and Reisi wants and needs more. He knows that the same goes for the man who is presently torturing the both of them.

“So impatient,” Suoh says, twisting his wrist and pressing his thumb just _so_ , swiping it over the head of Munakata’s erection, smearing the pre-cum there at the tip. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Not _you_ , obviously,” Munakata points out, hissing in near-relief as Mikoto shoves his pants down a little further, and then the hand that isn’t on his dick cups and roughly squeezes an ass cheek. 

“Not yet,” Mikoto corrects, and the promise in those words really shouldn’t make Munakata want to shake apart like it does, but.

(There’s always and forever a _but_ , when it comes to Suoh Mikoto.)

The words really shouldn’t mean anything when acts of physical violence are tantamount to flirting for them, but the words have always, always meant more than they ever should have.

Munakata feels almost feverish when slick fingers finally, _finally_ brush against him before pushing inside without further preamble and it’s still nowhere near enough but _getting better_ and he slumps forward a little, more over the sink. He clenches deliberately around the fingers that have entered him and he’s rewarded with a brief but firm _press_ \--yes, yes, there, and the fingers that are still circling his cock squeeze and he forgets anything and everything that isn’t Mikoto.

(And it really isn’t fucking fair, how the other man can reduce him to this so easily—it’s probably something that Munakata should hate him for but he doesn’t, can’t.

There’s a whole hell of a lot, actually, that Munakata should hate him for, but he doesn’t, can’t.

Won’t.

He’s perhaps good at pretending that he does, though, sometimes. 

The little façade has been slipping more often than not, lately, however.)

There’s a third finger and there’s a welcome burn that comes with the stretch; Munakata wants more of _that_ , and he loves and he hates (and he loves) how Mikoto _knows_ , without having to be told. The fingers within him spread wide and muscles give and it’s only going to be better when it’s more than just this—when it’s Mikoto’s cock that’s stretching him, Mikoto’s cock that’s hitting that spot inside of him that his fingers keep finding now and pressing _relentlessly_ against. 

Those clever, calloused, too-talented fingers stroke and press and the hand that’s on Munakata’s dick continues its motions as well, albeit maddeningly slowly, contrasting the rhythm of his fingers. Despite how torturous it is, Munakata can feel himself leaking pre-cum steadily; Mikoto, of course, notices this as well and Munakata mostly just hates how he doesn’t hate the smugness in Mikoto’s voice as he husks:

“I like feeling you come unhinged like this. Watching it. Always so prim and proper except when you’re with me.”

To say anything in response would be far too telling, especially in this moment, and so Reisi stays quiet even when his body doesn’t (can’t). His hips rock eagerly, urgently, forward and then back and he hisses when Mikoto growls and withdraws his fingers, too quickly, too roughly, but it leaves Reisi feeling a bit empty all the same, even if only for the span of a few erratic heartbeats. 

The hands are gone entirely and then they’re back: they’re on his ass, pulling apart the cheeks, spreading him open. It probably should be more embarrassing than it actually is, but the blunt head of Mikoto’s cock nudging at his hole makes him feel more shameless than it does anything else, and the moan that filters past his clenched teeth is nothing short of anticipatory.

It isn’t a gentle push, it isn’t a gradual sinking inside. It is an abrupt intrusion, and it forces muscles to stretch further to accommodate; it’s just this side of painful and neither of them would have it any other way.

The sounds they make as Mikoto enters him are similar—they’re animal. Primal needs are being met, here and now. It’s funny how Reisi’s never felt that he’s needed this until Mikoto had entered his life, brandishing a mercurial smile and leaving smoldering ashes in his wake.

Now, Reisi feels like he’s on fire, with and without Mikoto there. 

(With or without, and yet it’s all the same, but it’s entirely different.

He idly wonders sometimes if he’s going to wind up as collateral damage as a result of something that’s so much bigger than the both of them.

Right here and right now, with Mikoto slamming into him, it’s easy to not care.)

Suoh’s hands are moving again, fingers curling around his hips, nails digging in with bruising force. There will be crescent-shaped marks there later. Munakata will see them in the shower and he’ll think of this moment and he’ll jerk off, quick and dirty, and it won’t be enough—nothing will be, until they find some excuse to be alone together again.

(There’s a pattern developing, here, and it scares the hell out of him, in all honesty.)

Mikoto holds onto him, holds him in place, and Munakata can do little more than hold on, himself, his knuckles almost as white as the porcelain sink that he’s clutching at to keep himself upright. Mikoto is fucking him hard and deep and he knows Munakata’s body well by now, knows all the angles that make his cock brush against Munakata’s prostate, knows how to make that connection with every single thrust.

And that’s what he’s doing, right now. 

He feels tongue and then teeth at his back. Mikoto has probably bitten hard enough to draw blood, and that’s fine, more than fine. The pinpricks of pain amplify the pleasure, and that fine line between the two is one that he and Mikoto have walked quite frequently together, by now. They know it _intimately_.

Reisi’s now-neglected cock continues to leak; his sac feels heavy and tight. He slides one hand away from the sink and he wraps his fingers around himself, his hand finding the same erratic rhythm that Mikoto’s hips have found. He listens to the sound of their groans and their growls and their whimpers; he listens to the sound of flesh against flesh. He feels Mikoto bottom out with each and every push inside, feels the head of his cock tug at his rim with every retreat. His own breathing is as ragged as his heartbeat at this point and he feels that familiar pressure building quickly, feels that tightening, feels that heat pooling in his lower abdomen. 

He doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until they fly open at the feel of one of Suoh’s hands at his throat, squeezing tight enough to make him dizzier than he already is.

“I could set you aflame here and now,” Mikoto says lowly, dangerously. It’s thrilling, how breathless and turned on Mikoto sounds. Munakata can feel his aura, his power, pulsating beneath his skin, barely contained. It should perhaps be something akin to terrifying. For Munakata, though, it’s nothing short of titillating.

“You already have,” Munakata manages to respond, and it’s true—the blood coursing through his arteries and veins feels like molten liquid, and Mikoto (only Mikoto) can do this to him, make him burn like this. 

“Fuck,” Mikoto hisses, and _fuck_ is right; Munakata feels Mikoto _throb_ inside of him and he feels his own cock respond in kind. The hand leaves his throat in favor of his hip once more and Mikoto fucks him even _harder_. Munakata drags air into his lungs in short little bursts; Mikoto’s rhythm is merciless, relentless, and _perfect_.

Munakata swears constellations are born behind his closed eyelids, and when they explode, his vision goes white. He wails as he comes, the sound echoing off the walls. His knees threaten to give out and he leans further down, allowing the sink and Mikoto’s hands to hold him up, because he seems incapable of doing so on his own, presently.

He feels boneless when Mikoto finds his own release, but the sensation of it (warm and deep inside) makes Munakata moan.

Mikoto slumps over as well, panting. It’s uncomfortable, being trapped between him and the sink like this. Everything almost-but-not-quite aches, and Munakata will definitely be all kinds of sore later. For the moment, he gives into impulse and reaches up with a shaky hand, threading his fingers through Mikoto’s sweat-drenched hair.

They’re both perfectly spent. They’re both a little softer in the afterglow. 

(This illusion of bliss is the most dangerous thing that Reisi has ever encountered.)

As if realizing he’s already been here for too long, Mikoto breaks away from him. It’s stupid, but Munakata feels his absence viscerally, even though he’s still in the same room with him. 

Cleanup is hasty and minimal. Munakata knows that he’ll feel cum leaking out of him later, until he convinces himself to take a proper shower. He doesn’t mind it as much as he probably should, knows that it’ll only serve to turn him on again.

The energy in the room changes once they’re dressed. The atmosphere becomes subdued, somewhat somber. 

Some part of Munakata desperately wants to tell Mikoto that he can stay here, that he won’t lock him up this time, that he’ll simply let him stay. Some stupid, stubborn part of him wants to believe that he can protect the world from Suoh Mikoto, but he wants to believe even more that he can protect Suoh Mikoto from the world. 

“Where are you going?” The words come before Reisi can stop them. He means, _when you walk out of here_. He means, _twenty-four hours from now_. He means, _where will you be a month from now?_

Because everyone knows the Red King is as unstable as he’s ever been.

“History will repeat itself, you know,” Mikoto tells him, and it is and is not an answer. It isn’t at all what Munakata wants to hear. Munakata’s heart drops, sinking like a stone into the pit of his stomach.

“It doesn’t have to,” Reisi softly suggests, but he knows he’s already been defeated before the words even leave his lips.

“You really are a fool.” The words are gruffly spoken. Mikoto’s smile is rueful. He reaches for Munakata’s cheek, as if to touch him (and Munakata holds his breath), but he stops just shy of contact, making a fist and lowering it instead.

And Munakata _is_ a fool—he really is. He never feels it as distinctly as he does whenever he’s with Mikoto.

That says nothing and everything about them.

They stand inches apart and nothing else really needs to be spoken—they don’t _always_ understand each other’s silences. Sometimes, the understanding between them is loud, unforgiving, wounding. Sometimes, it’s just like this: it’s slow breathing and it’s almost-but-not-quite touching and it’s gazes that hold more than either of them has ever been willing to speak aloud. At this very moment, the understanding passes between them smoothly, without having to be forced in any sort of way. It brushes over Munakata’s skin in the way that Mikoto doesn’t allow his hands to, and it sinks in simultaneously slowly and all at once. It seeps into Munakata’s bones and it sits there and it _aches_ and Munakata wants to rip it out but he can’t.

He finds himself clutching at the front of Mikoto’s shirt. Mikoto allows it for just a moment, and for just a moment, he closes his own hand around Munakata’s. Then he’s stepping away from Munakata and the loss of contact is like a blow. It’s funny how these fleeting instances (these transient points of touch amidst their comings and goings) stick with Munakata the most, even when he wishes that they wouldn’t.

They argue and they fight and they fuck and they _love_ and they walk away from one another looking like they’ve fought a war.  
In a way, they have.

Reisi feels it along every inch of his body, in every crevice where dark things hide and settle and cause further internal wounds—the kind that you can’t see but you feel it with every ragged breath that is taken.

On shaky legs, he heads back into his office and he sits at his desk, forcibly directing his gaze to the stack of reports that lay atop it, reminding himself that this is what he was supposed to have been doing when the Red King made his little impromptu visit. 

His mind is elsewhere. Where it shouldn’t be. Where it never should have been, ever. He and Mikoto weren’t meant to dance and test fate like this, like they have been. 

He pretends that he doesn’t wish that things could have been different. They should have been different. In another life, perhaps Munakata could’ve been what Mikoto needed to keep from going off the rails and barreling head-first into self-destruction.

Would’ve. Could’ve. Should’ve. They mean nothing, when faced with reality.

Munakata takes a deep breath and releases it slowly; he pretends that it’s calming. He pretends that he doesn’t feel like something inside of him is crumbling.

This is the way it is and this is the way it shall be, wishes to the contrary be damned. 

And so, he tells himself that the two of them are incompatible. That they just don’t _fit_ anyway. Because sometimes, denying and rejecting it is easier than accepting that they _are_ and they _do_ , but they _can’t_. What he wants is out of reach.

It’s better this way. Better to not allow himself to get so entangled in any matter that concerns Suoh Mikoto. 

(It’s better to ignore the fact that he’s as hopelessly entwined as he can be, and there’s no chance of escape—there never has been, not even from day one.)

They’re oil and water and they don’t mix. They don’t.

(Until they find themselves sharing the same space again, and then—they do. 

Oh, they _do_.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope that someone enjoyed. I certainly enjoyed writing it; I believe I've missed them.


End file.
